Inez | Page 5

as I do. He will have no comforters,
broods over difficulties in secret, and shrinks from sympathy as from a
'scorching brand.'"
"Still, I think we can do much to lighten his cares, and I pray God I
may not be mistaken," replied Mary.
Florence lifted her head from her palm and gazed vacantly at her cousin,
then started from her seat.
"Mary, we must not sit here idly, when there is so much to do, Madame
---- should know we leave to-morrow, and it will take us all day to
prepare for our journey."
"Do let me go and speak to Madame----; it will be less unpleasant to
me?"
"No, no; I will go myself; they shall not think I feel it so sensibly, and
their condolence to-morrow would irritate me beyond measure. I scorn
such petty trials as loss of fortune, and they shall know it."
"Who shall know it, Florry?"
Her cheek flushed, but without a reply she left the room, and descended
the steps which led to Madame ----'s parlor. Reaching the door, she
drew herself proudly up, then knocked.
"Come in," was the response.
She did so. In the center of the apartment, with an open book on the
table before him, sat the teacher who officiated at prayers. He rose and
bowed coldly in answer to her salutation.
"Pardon my intrusion, Mr. Stewart. I expected to find Madame here."

"She has gone to spend the morning with an invalid sister, and
requested me to take charge of her classes, in addition to my own. If I
can render you any assistance, Miss Hamilton, I am at your service."
"Thank you, I am in need of no assistance, and merely wished to say to
Madame that I should leave New Orleans to-morrow, having heard
from my father that he will be here in the evening boat."
"I will inform her of your intended departure as early as possible."
"You will oblige me by doing so," replied Florence, turning to go.
"Miss Hamilton, may I ask you if your cousin accompanies you?"
"She does," was the laconic answer, and slowly she retraced her steps,
and stood at her own door. The cheeks had become colorless, and the
delicate lips writhed with pain. She paused a moment, then entered.
"Did you see her, Florry?"
"No, she is absent, but I left word for her."
Her tone was hard, dry, as though she had been striving long for some
goal, which, when nearly attained, her failing strength was scarce able
to grasp. It was the echo of a fearful struggle that had raged in her
proud bosom. The knell it seemed of expiring exertion, of sinking
resistance. Mary gazed sadly on her cousin, who stood mechanically
smoothing her glossy black hair. The haughty features seemed chiseled
in marble, so cold, stony was the expression.
"Dear Florry! you look harassed and weary already. Why, why will you
overtask your strength, merely to be called a disciple of Zeno? Surely
you cannot seriously desire so insignificant an honor, if it merits that
title?"
"Can, you, then, see no glory in crushing long-cherished hopes--nay,
when your heart is yearning toward some 'bright particular' path, to turn
without one symptom of regret, and calmly tread one just the opposite!

Tell me, can you perceive nothing elevating in this Stoical command?"
The cold, vacant look had passed away; her dark eyes gleamed,
glittered as with anticipated triumph.
"Florry, I do not understand you exactly; but I do know that command
of the heart is impossible, from the source whence you draw. It may
seem perfect control now, but it will fail you in the dark hour of your
need, if many trials should assail. Oh! my cousin, do not be angry if I
say 'you have forsaken the fountain of living water, and hewn out for
yourself broken cisterns, which hold no water.' Oh! Florry, before you
take another step, return to Him, 'who has a balm for every wound.'"
Florence's face softened; an expression of relief began to steal over her
countenance; but as Mary ceased speaking, she turned her face,
beautiful in its angelic purity, full upon her. A bitter smile curled
Florence's lip, and muttering hoarsely, "A few more hours and the
struggle will be over," she turned to her bureau, and arranged her
clothes for packing.
The day passed in preparation, and twilight found the cousins watching
intently at the casement. The great clock in the hall chimed out seven,
the last stroke died away, and then the sharp clang of the door-bell
again broke silence. They started to their feet, heard the street door
open and close--then steps along the stairs, nearer and nearer--then
came a knock at the door. Mary opened it; the servant handed in a card
and